


Sweater Weather

by Creeper_Keaton



Series: Hearth Heart [3]
Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: F/M, Shameless staring, Sweater of Doom, lunch date and running late
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 13:02:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5376173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Creeper_Keaton/pseuds/Creeper_Keaton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One day Bog will remember to either thank or shun his mother for the constant gift of sweaters.</p>
<p>An excerpt story from <strong>Toe the Line</strong></p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweater Weather

**Author's Note:**

> Saw a man in a sweater and I just had to write this. I am sorry, be thankful I don't drabble much. You are welcome.
> 
> Also am I the only one that thinks Bog would look amazing in a peacoat with epaulettes?

There was a clean, crisp way that new morning light affected photographs; it brought out the sharpest edges, the fullest colours. It also brought out the grumpiest students.

Once a week Bog had to be up earlier than 'the unholiest hour written on Satan's personal agenda' (Marianne's words, not his) as the class headed out in a caffeine-deprived shuffle. They'd snap their photos, grumble an unhappy goodbye to the bubbly professor, and all make a mad dash for Starbucks with a liveliness that defied the past two hours. In the wake of that pandemonium he was so very glad he knew how to brew his own.

So it was only an hour after daybreak, coffee clutched lovingly to his chest, that he got the text.

**meet @ cafeE if u ever want to see candid Bog pictures before they hit the web.**

Marianne was fiesty. She was loud, opinionated, and so amazingly blunt that she could stop a man in under seven words. Unfortunately the effect she had on **him** leaned more towards kickstarting his heart to turbo speeds. Regardless, he managed to work slightly shaking fingers enough to type out an affirmative. His fourth time hanging with Marianne socially, fifth if you counted their lovely initial midnight encounter.

His phone chirped, a bright obnoxious flash of a light just under the time stamp of 7:43. Three hours. He could do this.

###### 

He could not do this.

His narrow dorm bed was a mess of rejected clothing, a mound almost embarrassingly tall piled sadly on the surface. He'd given up any form of sifting through his clothes, now just yanking a hanger at random and holding it to his chest with weak hopes that one would be flattering on his skeletal frame. Reaching hopelessly into his closet he was met with garish colours, a sweater so hideous he'd hidden it as far back as he could in hopes that some magical gnomes would come along and steal it. The merry sequined 'B' flashing on the front assured him that it was sadly still in existence.

That sweater was gently set aside to be burned later.

Atrocity glaring from his peripheral but no longer a danger, he was still in no better shape than he had been two hours ago. He'd started out controlled, actually pulling on sweater after sweater to properly assess each one. That had been abandoned when a loose-knit article had caught the button of his jeans, resulting in a madly awkward hop-dance to get it off without hitting the floor. Persistently he had continued, goal in mind; Marianne was so used to seeing him in baggy clothing devoid of colour and he wanted to prove to her that he could at least step up and look reasonably respectable. The reasons for this thinking had nothing to do with any potential crush he may have been nursing.

Scruffing a hand through his already-messy hair (donning/removing sweaters had destroyed it), he made an absent swipe for his coffee. The cold liquid had him shuddering the whole time it slid down his throat, and he glared at the mug disdainfully.

The fact that things got cold over _time_ hit him about four seconds later.

His phone, still cursedly cheerful, happily displayed **10:28**. Swearing loudly he dove for the pile, grabbing a comfortable and not particularly fetching article. There was no more time to be picky.

Yanking it over his head as he bolted for his coat and wallet, he felt a constricting realization that this was not, to his dismay, the correct sweater. Smoothing hands over the _much_ tighter knit, he looked back at the towering clothes and calculated the distance between him and the restaurant.

"Shit thrice over Ah dinnae have _time_ ta deal with this!"

There was a turn, and aborted move back for the clothing, but his phone beeped and damnit it was Dawn and if he didn't step out that door now- One more stunningly aggressive snarl and he jammed his arm in his coat sleeve, whipping open the door and bolting so fast he almost forgot to lock it behind him.

###### 

Marianne grinned as the café door banged open, long-legged Bog stumbling through awkwardly as his trailing scarf almost got caught on the protruding handle. Dawn, and Sunny beside her, joined in on giggling at the Scotsman's expense. He managed a watery glare at best, cheeks flushed and eyes glossy from the unseasonally bitter wind.

To sooth his bristled posture, Marianne folded her hands in front of her, resting her cheek against their apex as she lightly kicked the table's free chair out. Just as planned his shoulders stooped and he huffed a sigh. She didn't miss the wry grin that twisted his lips as he turned to hang his coat, though.

Dawn picked up her rant about why Victorian lilac was not simply _purple_ , Sunny nodding along empathetically even though he understood zero percent of her rant, as Bog made to remove his coat. Head now leaning a bit heavier, Marianne lazily observed his motions as a raised arm pulled the heavy wool fabric tighter, highlighted his shoulders. When the coat slid off of him, buttons defeated, her eyes widened.

Bog was a master of unflattering, baggy sweaters. He had enough that he could probably start a horrible fashion magazine of Fit Guy Wears It Bad, and she was pretty sure Dawn would be the Chief Editor. She was often the most vocal about them, playfully asking if he even owned something fitted as she jokingly made promises to raid his wardrobe. Apparently raiding was no longer needed because yes. Yes he did.

The black knit fabric looked smooth, smoother than wool, that traced his body instead of sitting heavily. Fine cable patterns guided her eyes down the length of it- and him. It pulled across his shoulders just tight enough that the collar shifted with his movement, a shallow 'v' that showed a sculpted collar bone perfectly. Running from one shoulder to the opposite hip was a subtle overlapping layer, what looked like dark wooden buttons following the line in a double-breasted format. The edge of the sweater sat just below his hipbones, highlighting the cut of them, and when he turned slightly to ask the waitress for a coffee _good god_. Bog was thin, it was as obvious as stating fire was hot, but the sweater fell on his backside perfectly and _wow_ that man had an amazing ass.

Which he promptly planted into his chair and yes, that was a sting of disappointment she felt but he was staring at her with a look mixed between concerned and suspicious. Sitting back from her lean (when had she leaned what kind of lecher was she) she removed her thumb tip from its gnawed-upon position on her lip and rammed that same hand through her hair.

Shooting him the boldest grin she could, all barbs and sass, she tried to remove the focus from herself.

"You never can be on time, can you? Maybe try waking up earlier."

It worked, because his spine snapped straight in offense and he sputtered viciously. Whatever response he'd been trying for had him clicking his jaw shut, teeth audibly grinding as he used the coffee creamer as a distraction, jerking it closer and glaring into the depths. She was left to laugh even as she tried to block out the fact that she had just attempted to disrobe him with her eyes.

Returning to his side, the waitress carefully set down the cup, and Marianne saw the woman's eyes flit down the line of his body. When he looked up to thank her, she waved it away and tossed him a hearty wink. "For you, Hon? Anything."

Marianne's appraising gaze turned to ice in a second, and the waitress caught her eye and backed off without another word. Bog, for his part, was absorbed in his coffee, the beginnings of a smile brought on by coffee assurance in place as he blithely missed the near throw-down on his own behalf.

###### 

My mother and I are the only ones that understand that you cannot just see lilac and call it purple. It is not purple. Purple is an even mix of blue and red and I can't- Anyway, sorry for this silly little drabble. I needed to write something small and in the Hearth Heart line to hopefully get my mind off the bloody Iron Gambit pitch. I really hope you guys at least find this tolerable, and comments are love!


End file.
